Astronaut
by silent-stars-go-by
Summary: "His laugh is like a rattle in a dying man's chest, and it chills them right to their very core, turning their skin icy cold." The Doctor has suffered too much for too long, and now he's starting to lose control, his grip on reality slipping away.


**Fandom: Doctor Who  
><strong>**Rating: T  
>Genre: AngstHorror. I guess it's a little dark in places.  
><strong>**Characters: The Eleventh Doctor, predominantly, but Amy and Rory feature too.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who, or the song Astronaut by Simple Plan.**

**This has only been beta'd by me, so any mistakes are mine. Fanfic has an annoying habit of taking out all the spaces when I use italics, but I think I got all of those.**

**Author's Note: Hello! This is my first Who fic, so I hope it's alright. I've always liked the idea of a darker Doctor, so as a result of that, this fic happened. Please, enjoy, and review! :)**

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><p><strong>"The tragedy of life is what dies in a man while he lives." - Albert Schweitzer.<strong>

**-/\-**

**Astronaut**

_Can anybody hear me?_

_Am I talking to myself?_

No one understands him, not really. When he hurls accusations and flings around fancy, impressive words, just for the sake of it, _because __he __can,_ his enemies cower in fear. They recoil because of his commanding presence, the anger written across his features, not because they can decipher what is being said. When he proclaims the beauty of the stars, extols planets' virtues, or ponders on the complexities of the human race, his companions nod along, but they can't truly fathom his observations and declarations. No one knows what he's saying, not really. They understand bits and pieces, little fragments, but the sheer _brilliance _and intelligence is lost on all, falling flat on unwilling ears. To them, he's speaking another language, and sometimes he is, because he _enjoys _hearing the words rolling off his lips in different tongues, but they can't translate or reply, and he can only keep up a conversation with himself for so long before the words die in his throat and his grin cracks and falters.

Sometimes, when it's just him in the control room of the TARDIS, the silence is hauntingly deafening. He just _has _to fill the void, the empty spaces in between the walls with words. It doesn't matter that no one is listening, that no one is even _there_, he just can't take the quiet. So he talks, flitting from one train of thought to another as fast as a butterfly beats its wings, going so fast that no one can quite keep up. When they finally start to grasp just a _fraction _of what is being said he's already off again, topic closed, new discussion. They shake their heads, share a look halfway between amusement and exasperation, and it makes him feel so terribly _lonely_. He surrounds himself with these people, subconsciously begging them to comprehend, and they laugh at him, and he laughs along because pretending is _so __much __easier _than acknowledging the fact that he is completely and utterly alone in this universe.

_My mind is running empty_

_In the search for someone else_

_Who doesn't look right through me._

He can see he impresses his companions and scares his enemies, and perhaps the other way around, also. It keeps him going, but it's not enough, just bursts of adrenaline on his long and tiresome journey to find someone who can genuinely interpret his words and unravel the deepest intricacies of his mind. So he jumps from one companion to the next, never liking to spend too much time on his own, still hoping to find that one special person that will stand out from all the rest, even though he knows that the chances of that happening are slim. He knows that only one of his own kind could fill this gaping hole inside of himself, but he erased that possibility centuries ago. Back when he was his full self, and not merely a shadow, he condemned himself to a life of loneliness and solitude. Sometimes, when he's feeling his worst, when his lips are pressed into a tight line and his eyes are dark, gleaming with an unforgiving edge and a world-weariness, he wishes grimly that he had burned along with them. At least then he wouldn't feel so trapped in this half-existence, this state of being only a ghost, drifting along from place to place, just looking for some peace.

He knows that everyone sees this version of himself that isn't wholly real, merely an exaggeration of his core personality, and he keeps up the act, because after all, he's never one to disappoint. It is only himself he lets down. He can feel himself becoming tired; the exhaustion bleeds into his mannerisms, weighing down his movements and stealing some sincerity from his joy, but he's so very good at faking, had _hundreds __and __hundreds __of __years __to __practice _that no one can recognize his deception. They don't know him well enough to be able to do so, and he doesn't know if that is a relief or a sorrow. They think he's a self-sacrificing martyr, a bewildering alien, a _god_, even, and that's all they can see. They look at him, but all they can do is look _through _him, because they just can't see what's really there. And all he wants is someone to notice, to observe his melancholy and piece together the shredded remnants of his soul.

_It's all just static in my head_

_Can anybody tell me why I'm lonely like a satellite?_

Voices. In his head. His conscience, his voice of rationality and reason. His voice of desire, of despair, of bitterness. There are too many, all raging in battle to be heard, telling him to _do __this, __say __that_, and he doesn't know which to oblige and which to shun. Does he indulge in selfishness, and do something _for __him_? Or does he continue to sacrifice and give away _everything __he __has _for so very little in return? He can hear the anger in his head, the malice and vehemence spitting and hissing, dripping all over his thoughts, and it makes him feel a little unhinged, a little _deranged. _A tiny, dark part of his hearts agree with the rage, and beg him to act upon it, to exact revenge and make everyone feel like he does, to wipe out their entire races and _see how they like it_? Why does it always have to be _him _who's all alone, orbiting the suns and the stars and the planets, doomed to be forever stuck on a lonely trajectory? Why is it _him _who has to suffer this suffocating isolation? But then he remembers that this isn't him, that he's _better __than __this, _and he buries it deep, deep down inside, where it lies in wait for the perfect opportunity to rise up again. And it always, always does, because he's not perfect, and that ugly part of himself is unbeatable. He can't get rid of it, only stow it away and hope in vain that it stays hidden.

Then there's the voice that is wicked and cruel, and makes him want to cry out at the hopelessness of it all.

It whispers to him, quieter than all the rest but all the more deadly, tormenting him endlessly. _You __deserve __this. __Murderer. __Liar. __Coward. _This is the voice he loathes the most; he despises it because he knows that everything it's saying is _true_. He can't deny it, so he merely runs from it instead, finding new things to fill up his time and occupy his thoughts so he doesn't have to listen to all the callous accusations that rattle around his lonely mind, echoing in a despicable crescendo. He felt forsaken, _abandoned_, and all he wanted was a reason why, a reason other than _because __I __deserve __this._

_'Cause tonight I'm feeling like an astronaut_

_Sending SOS from this tiny box_

_And I lost all signal when I lifted up_

Whenever his TARDIS picks up an SOS call, he always goes running, desperate to rescue strangers whom he's never met before and will no doubt never see again. It's almost as if in every good deed he does, he's searching for redemption, trying to wash away the sins of his past with righteous acts and honorable feats. Or maybe it's because he likes the praise and adoration he receives afterwards for saving a life, saving a _whole __race, _or the way the planets' inhabitants marvel and wonder at his superior intellect and wisdom, or the charming labels the humans give him, _spaceman, __alien, __astronaut. _That's what he feels like, sometimes, travelling along inside his TARDIS, the cerulean Police Box that's small on the outside but bigger on the inside, the place that long ago became his home.

Sometimes he wishes he could send an SOS, feels like his hearts and his eyes are constantly emitting a distress call, _praying _for someone to answer, but no one ever picks it up. His transmission plays over and over in his head, a never ending ending loop of _someone, __please __help __me, __I__'__m __so __lost, __so __lonely, __please, __save __me, __is __anybody __there, __can__'__t __anyone __hear __me, __help __me, __please _and it's starting to drive him just that little bit crazy, to be honest. But he just plasters on a grin, forces a twinkle in his eye and a spring in his step, and he's good to go, off an a new adventure, just like the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that...and for every day for as long as he cares to remember. Because nobody is listening to him, _nobody __is __picking __up __his __SOS_, so what else can he do but struggle on? Every time he fires up the TARDIS and it fades from that particular point in time and space, he loses his connection to everything there, loses the possibility of anyone ever caring enough to catch his desperate pleas for help. Over time, he can feel himself slipping away, feel his strength fading. He isn't all he once was; he knows he's not quite whole. Parts of him are missing, left behind on burning planets and blazing suns, and in the spaces in between. And he knows that soon he'll stop transmitting his anguish, lose all signal completely, and it'll be too late. He'll have lost too much of himself, given _too __much __for __too __little, _had scraps of his soul ripped out and shoved back in useless, unrecognizable pieces. There'll be nothing left to save, nothing even worth salvaging.

_Now I'm stuck out here and the world forgot_

_Can I please come down, cause I'm tired of drifting round and round_

_Can I please come down?_

He's been drifting across the universe for hundreds and hundreds of years now, leaping between worlds and planets, hopping across different times. There is still so much wonder, so many miracles, yet he can no longer appreciate them in quite the same way as before. Everyday he seeks out a new adventure, hunting for the excitement and the thrills, the hazards and dangers and perils, each a key cause of his adrenaline rushes, all very good at taking his mind off of himself and his plight. He pushes aside his self-pity, regret, _self-loathing_, and throws everything he has left into the rescue missions and the expeditions, the races and the chases, just _immerses _himself _completely _in them so that he doesn't have to think about or feel anything else. So long as he keeps himself as busy as possible, he doesn't have the time to stop and think about how much of an irreparable, unworthy lost cause he is, and he can continue hiding and living in denial.

But he's getting tired of it all. Of the constant running and close calls, of being too scared to be left in the silence for more than minute. Of being alone. He knows he can't keep it up for much longer, that he can only run for so long, but he doesn't know what he'll do when that time comes, so he doesn't mull it over too much. It would only drag him down prematurely, if he did, and he'd much prefer to stay sane for as long as possible.

It used to be that he wanted to explore the entire universe, map out every star, name every sun, meet every race, save every planet...but the thought of wandering through space long enough to achieve all of that sends shivers crawling along his skin and ghosting down his spine. He'd need an eternity, and he couldn't face perpetual loneliness. He could travel forever, and would be quite happy to, if only he had someone to share it with, someone who he won't have to drop back off somewhere, or someone who can only live one short life.

He often considers anchoring somewhere, coming down from time and space and staying in one place for more than a few days, making connections, building roots. But the thought of it is so absurd, he laughs it off, a hollow, empty sound, because he's _never _had anything like that and _never _can. It's just not who he is, not what he's capable of. But the idea is so tempting, there are days when he comes _so __close _to indulging in his fantasy. He never does, however.

_I'm deaf from all the silence_

_Is it something that I've done?_

Inevitably, he can't evade the silence constantly. It's impossible to cram actions and adventures into every _second _of his life; there has to be some respite in between them, as his companions frequently stress. So while they rest, recuperate, or do whatever it is that they do when they're not wandering around some alien city or running for their lives from murderous, psychotic creatures, he pathetically tries to busy himself, tinkering with contraptions and the like. But while his hands work, twisting tools, his mind wanders from the task, and he broods, dark thoughts breeding and darkening his expression, tearing down his façade. The silence always seems so _unbearably_ loud, because the voices in his mind take it upon themselves to make sure that he never gets a moment of peace and quiet. They clatter around his mind, so many versions of himself all vying for attention, not merely past regenerations, who sit placidly at the back, but the very many shades of himself, as if he were cut into slices and each piece was given a different emotion. Happiness. Regret. Shame. Bitterness. Jollity. Anger. Despair. So many more negative sentiments, all locking horns, all in competition over _who __gets __to __control __the __Doctor. _Sometimes, he is helpless, nought but a puppet in their hands, and they force him to dance, screaming inside his head, and more often than not it's just so much easier to let them have their way. To lash out in anger, to take it upon himself to reprimand and chastise, to dole out justice how he sees fit.

Is that his crime? That he is taking up the role of Protector of the Universe, and he doesn't have the right to do so? Who appointed him, who gave him the power to choose who lives and who dies? No one. He just does it, because he is arrogant enough to presume that _he __is __the __most __powerful __being __in __the __universe, _and perhaps he is. It goes to his head; he can be patronizing and condescending, overbearing and egotistical, but he feels that he has earned the right to be this way. He has lived for _over __a __thousand __years_, picked up seemingly _endless_ amounts of information and knowledge in that time and experienced a myriad of different things. He likes to show off, _likes __to __impress, _he knows he does, and allows himself to feel just a tiny bit smug on occasion. Only a little bit, though; he doesn't want to appear _too _conceited. Over time, he'd learnt to let his wisdom come across gently, but he just can't seem to pull it off with enough grace and decorum anymore. His huge capacity of patience is rapidly decreasing; he is loath to have to explain himself because the people around him just _can__'__t __keep __up. _It grates on his nerves, and once again serves to remind him that there's no else out there like him, no true companion to cure his pessimistic gloom.

So this eternal isolation, is this his punishment? For everything he's done? For all the blood on his hands, for all his arrogance and borderline narcissism? He knows it is, and on some level, he accepts it. He has no one to blame but himself - _he_ wiped out his entire race -with the exception of himself- and _he _brought all of this upon himself, so now he has to live with the consequences of his actions. But then again, he's never been the type to just acquiesce to something without a fight, and he _doesn__'__t __want __it __to __be __this __way_. So he seeks for an escape, hunts for salvation; he'd pray for deliverance if he thought anyone who might be listening would care. All the time asking _why. _Just one word that haunts him, echoing around and around in his mind, _why __this, __why __that, __why __me, __whywhywhy. _An endless cacophony of questions, questions that he can't answer, not with all of his knowledge and experience and almighty wisdom. And he thought he knew everything. He'd laugh at the irony of it all if the joke weren't so cutting, if the words didn't die in his throat. And if _he_ can't answer the questions, then no one can, so he'll never know.

_I know that there are millions_

_I can't be the only one who's so disconnected_

He searches the stars, looking in every corner and crevice of the universe for someone else. He can't be the only one surviving with this soul-deep loneliness, so terribly strong that it drains the vivacity from his countenance and the life from his bones. If only he could find a kindred spirit, someone as lonely as himself, then they could help each other; bonded in their melancholy they could traverse the cosmos together, and when he showed them wonders, saw their face light up in awe, he could start to take genuine delight in the universe again, and his smiles could be sincere once more. And over time, perhaps the aching in his chest will start to lessen, the grip on his hearts might cease, and he could breathe again, deeply and fully. Then he wouldn't feel so detached and isolated from everything and everyone, and he could start to reconnect with the world again, discovering it anew.

He thinks he'd be able to identify someone, detect their desolate presence among a crowd. All he has to do is look out for the same signs that he sees in himself, the signs that he hides from others, but shine through so blatantly when no one is around to witness them. But so far, no luck. _Nothing_. He considers that maybe he isn't looking in the right places, so he travels more and more randomly, his goal now no longer to explore, but to find someone as lonely as he. He grows more and more desperate with each arrival in a new destination, a desperateness which his companions assume to be merely eagerness. And he is eager, but for completely different reasons than they presume.

And, at the end of every adventure, he returns to the TARDIS feeling even lonelier than when he had left.

_It's so different in my head._

_Can anybody tell me why I'm lonely like a satellite?_

He can feel his sanity starting to fray. His mind is a jumble of disconnected thoughts, feelings and voices, all merging together and stealing away his good sense. As a result, he frequently miscalculates, misjudges, forgets, misses things that would have been so obvious to him before, and it's occurring more and more frequently that he can detect the first signs of worry in his companions' eyes. Maybe they think he's ill, or dying, or both. And in a way he is, but of nothing merely so physical. It's a sickness of the head, a disease of the mind. It's deadly and poisonous, growing out of control, and as weeks pass as he searches for a cure, he gets worse and worse.

And he still doesn't know _why_. All he wants is an answer. And maybe that's his problem; he's too concerned with the _why _to actually resolve the issue, too wrapped up in his quest for a response that he can't see that he's been missing the solution over and over. Because he can't realize that, he's slowly succumbing to the venom of bitterness, losing himself bit by bit.

_Now I lie awake and scream in a zero gravity_

_And it's starting to weigh down on me._

He's so tired, completely and utterly _exhausted, _but he can't sleep. Sleep offers respite, an intermission from his suffering, and for that reason alone it continues to elude him. He's come to the conclusion that he's not allowed any peace, that this is his punishment for his actions, and all he can do now is accept it and atone for his sins as best as he can.

In a miserable attempt to keep up his pretense that _he__'__s __fine, __everything __is __normal, _each night he goes to his room in the TARDIS, despite the fact that he suspects that he is no longer fooling the Ponds entirely. But they haven't questioned him about it yet, so he figures that although his whole personality and soul has morphed into something entirely different from what he once was, he's still a good liar.

Sometimes he believes that he is indeed asleep, tells himself he is, because if he isn't, then it means that the nightmares he has been experiencing are _real, _morbid hallucinations unravelling before his terrified eyes. And if that's the case, then he's definitely losing his grip on reality. He sees every wrong action he has ever done, hears every plea for help that he couldn't always answer, sees the people he couldn't save, sees the planets he left to burn...And there's too much, too much and he can't bear it, _just __wants __it __to __stop, __he__'__s __sorry, __so __sorry __and __oh __God __why __won__'__t __it __stop? _His hands claw his face, carving grooves in his skin as he rocks back and forth, his knees pressing into the hard floor. His burdens are too vast and too great for him to carry, his shoulders crumbling under their weight and he's struggling to hold it all up, knows that soon his strength will fail him and his body will give out, crushed by their awful weight.

He's free-falling over the edge; he tumbled over the precipice with no one to grab hold of him as his grip slackened, and now he can't bring himself back up, or even slow himself down. He screamed and _screamed _but nobody heard, screamed till his throat was so hoarse that the cries died in his throat and he could taste blood in his mouth, but nobody ever came. And now it's too late.

_Let's abort this mission now_

_Can I please come down?_

_I __want __to __go __home, _he cries, over and over and over, _I __just __want __to __go __home, __please, __I __just __want __to __go __home. _He promises to stop running, to stop intervening, swears to the heavens that he'll take any punishment, anything other than _this, _if he could only come home, drop out of space and land his TARDIS for the last time.

He considers going back to Gallifrey before the Time War, before he made the _treacherous _decision to _betray _his people and _destroy __his __home, _because he was so _stupid _for doing such a thing, cursing himself for his rash actions. But something always holds him back, stops his hands from pulling the levers and pressing the buttons. _Guilt. _He knew he couldn't go back there, knew he couldn't stand to see the faces of all of the people he would end up _murdering. _So his hands fall back, twitching, nervously tweaking his bow tie again and again, a habit he soon developed to occupy his hands, otherwise he'd end up _punching __and __strangling __and __choking __the __life __out __of __something._

_So tonight I'm calling all astronauts_

_Calling lonely people that the world forgot_

_If you hear my voice come pick me up_

_Are you out there?_

_'Cause you're all I've got!_

With arms spread wide, raised heavenward, and feet planted firmly apart, and his head raised defiantly to stare out into space, he stands and he screams and he shouts. Begging for someone to listen, to remember who he was and how he used to be, for every lost soul to hear his voice and come to him so _he __can __rescue __them._ So they could rescue _him. _His cries echo across the emptiness, seeking out a weary survivor like himself, someone who has suffered loss and grief and pain, someone else who has nothing left.

But Amy and Rory pull him back, away from the open TARDIS doors, afraid that he'll lose balance and topple over the edge and hurtle into space. They land in a heap, and the Doctor laughs at the irony; he fell off the metaphorical ledge months ago. The Ponds share a look, silently sharing their confusion, worry and _fear _for the Timelord. His laugh is like a rattle in a dying man's chest, and it chills them right to their very core, causing their skin to turn icy with trepidation.

Amy's lips part, hesitating; she doesn't know how to start. Something is wrong with him, she knows that much, but _what? _The Doctor looks at her expectantly, expression strangely serene, then at Rory, who steps in for his wife. But he's no better, and his words come out in an awkward jumble. The Doctor merely laughs again; _I __know __what __you__'__re __trying __to __say. __I __know __most __things. __Almost __everything __actually, _and he springs to his feet with the sudden enthusiasm of a madman's gaiety, running around the TARDIS console, speaking to himself, until Amy grabs him by the label of his tweed jacket as he passes her. She spins him around to face her, determination set across her features. She demands to know what is wrong. The Doctor doesn't answer, easily shrugging out of her tenuous grip.

But Amy is persistent, and asks again and again, Rory joining in to create a crescendo, _we__'__re __not __going __anywhere __until __you __tell __us __what__'__s __wrong. _At that, the Doctor froze, his shoulders stiff with tension, fists clenched in a sudden flash of silent rage; his features fell flat and expressionless as all of the mirth dissipated. He turned to face them slowly, his head slightly bowed so that when he looked up at them, his eyes were pooled in shadow. Amy flinched at the sight, instinctively reaching for her husband's hand as the first icy tendrils of fear latched onto her heart. The Doctor took two deliberate steps towards them, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards as he perceived the married couple take two steps back. _You __want __to __know __why, _he starts, and his voice is low and menacing, _I__'__ll __tell __you __why__-_

_And tonight I'm feeling like an astronaut_

_Sending SOS from this tiny box_

_And I lost all signal when I lifted up_

_Now I'm stuck out here and the world forgot_

_'Cause tonight I'm feeling like an astronaut_

_Sending SOS from this tiny box_

_To the lonely people that the world forgot_

_Are you out there?_

_'Cause you're all I've got!_

_Can I please come down?_

_'Cause I'm tired of drifting round and round._

_Can I please come down?_

His façade cracks and his voice chokes. His previous illusions of bonhomie and good spirits disappear entirely, fading with an echo of cruel laughter. This is his downfall, his ruin. He can't take any more, can't _pretend _any longer; he's been so fake for so long that he can't believe how long it took Amy and Roryto notice the sham of his authenticity. Everything he's ever had lies in pieces around him, the shards slicing through his fingers as he desperately tries to reassemble them, tries to reassert some kind of order and clarity to his life, but he just can't do it. Nothing makes _sense _to him anymore, and he throws back his head and laughs, a harsh, hollow sound, his eyes wild but with a steely glint. He laughs at himself, at how _pathetic _and _spineless _he is, at how he allowed himself to become this mess. He used to be strong and mighty, respected and revered, _feared, _but now he terrorizes people for all the wrong reasons. They fear a lunatic god with nothing and no one to lose, a god without any semblance of reason and mercy, who possesses too much power for such a fragile state of mind. He's developed sociopathic tendencies, his conscience too beaten down to chastise him. No one dares to oppose him or stand in his way, figuring it safer to just let him do as he pleases. A god with a millennia of pain, regret, bitterness and misery to pour out.

When Amy and Rory finally realized that something was _very, __very __wrong _with him, they were afraid for him. Now, they're afraid _of _him. Of what he'll do next. They tried to help him, did all they could, but even at his worst, the Doctor was _still _too proud to accept their aid. So he pushed them away time and time again, swatting away their outstretched hands and ignoring their pleas, but they were relentless, refusing to give up on him. And in turn, he grew to resent them, couldn't understand why they wouldn't just _leave __him __alone. _He didn't feel the pain of loneliness anymore, didn't feel much of anything despite his rage and his anger. This was _better _than before, but they just couldn't see it, couldn't leave him in peace. They replaced the old voices in his head, constantly nagging him to _look __at __what __you__'__re __doing, __at __who __you__'__ve __become, _and, quite frankly, their continuous whining was beginning to grate on his nerves. They were ruining his _fun, _and were too obstinate to see his side of things.

So he made them see.

With blood on his hands, he catches his reflection in the mirror, and he doesn't recognize the man staring back at him, with a gaunt face and darkness in his eyes, cold yet manic with despair. His smiles are crazed, and his words are bitter and mocking, cruelly sardonic and spiteful to anyone around. He's locked himself away in his blue box, hurtling around space deliriously.

He's lost it, knows he has, but can't bring himself to care. He's been stuck out in space for too long, his life an endless chase, always running and running and _running, _running away from himself, his past, from the truth. Always the saviour, but never the saved. And it's taken _centuries_, but he's finally broken. Broken beyond repair. He grins, a twisted, malicious grim smile.

Now he really _is_ a _mad man __in __a __box._

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><p><em><strong>So...I hope you liked it, and please, review if you have the time :) Constructive criticism is appreciated! <strong>  
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